


Album

by id_ten_it



Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Genre: Cross-Posted on LiveJournal, M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 15:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13414578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: Snapshots of Biggles and Algy from Biggles in France until just before Biggles in Spain. This spans around ten years of Biggles and Algy negotiating and re-negotiating their relationship.





	Album

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks for the super-beta powers of 003chan and prudence_dearly who originally provided a beta service unsurpassed wayyyy back in the dim dark ages of 2010, when it was originally posted on biggles_slash. I have made some minor amendments since then.
> 
> For your listening pleasure, the following is the music mentioned:  
> Irby (the tune name of 'Once in Royal'. Side note: this has started every King's College Cambridge Nine Lessons and Carols service since 1919. I am not aware of exactly when said service made it to London but I have made the decision it was before 1928 (when the service was first broadcast). Algy refers to the tradition of a chorister singing the first verse solo.)
> 
> 'Vom Himmel hoch, da komm ich her' (tr: 'from heaven above to earth I come'). Algy is playing the variation by Bach. Carol originally by Luther.
> 
> The Emperor Waltz by Strauss.
> 
> Rachmaninov's Opus 32 No. 10.
> 
> Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 23 'Appassionata' Opus 57.
> 
> Rachmaninov's Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini'.
> 
> This is the longest lot of notes I have ever written. I hope they added some clarity!

Algy and Biggles, driving back from their most successful ‘Operation Humbug’, turned to stare at each other, aghast.

Where once had stood the bustling buildings and surrounds of their airfield, now rose palls of smoke.

“The utter swine! Bombing us when there’s not a thing we can do about it.” Algy muttered, shaking with frustration. Biggles, white lipped and tight- eyed, nodded mutely. “They’ll be paying for it for weeks,” he added, calmly. “Meanwhile, we’ll need to be philosophical about dealing with it.”

Algy smiled a little, “So long as they don’t put me in with someone who snores, I’ll be fine.”

As luck would have it, the damage to barracks was scattered, as it was to the operations and support buildings. The real damage, whether by luck or design, was to the runway and apron. For an hour before dinner, Algy joined in shovelling and wheeling dirt from behind the road to fill in holes. The older officers, busier or lazier, merely sat and talked. Dinner came, was eaten outside and cold, and went. Major Mullen called and received their undivided attention to give them orders, before they trickled over to their re-assigned sleeping quarters, where whole flights would now be sharing rooms where they needed to.

“You can rest assured, Algy, I don’t snore.”  Biggles smiled as he settled into the single bed and blinked up at his cousin. “Have fun, old boy.”

“Sleep well,” Algy rejoined, preparing for an exciting night out in town with the usual suspects.

***

Algy’s travelled several miles in the same old clapped-out transport this week, but at night, with the clouds down low, the full moon hardly visible and the rain thumping onto the roof and dripping down one side of his collar, he can’t relate the hilarity shared with Biggles that afternoon – really, shooting his own pyjamas made a man’s face look dashed odd – with the fug and dubious comfort of the present. There are eight of them, squashed together for warmth, staring out through the back canvas, where little rips provide a somewhat limited view, or the front glass, where three heads jostle in front of the windscreen and make it almost as hard to see out.

News travels quickly, good news twice as fast, and the arrival of several fresh ladies at their favourite night establishment had spread faster than the ladies themselves. Thus, the transport was heading out at a time it usually didn’t, with a load more indicative of a Thursday than a Tuesday night. Perhaps that added to the fug, the total unreality of the situation. Their feelings are different, too, more resigned to hard work than flying, aware of what they have lost and of what they still have.

From not that far away comes the crump, crump, thump cacophony of trench warfare, the lights visible and unreal, pale green or red, yellow, orange and, eerily, a blue which seems far more obscene than the rest. No one talks about what it might mean. The noise is a part of their life, the colours just another tinge of hell they do not share.

Blearily, the pilots alight at the corner, huddle their way through to the even fuggier, smokier, noisier, rooms. People are here to forget about the war, not to hear it. The music is loud; the lights are dim and constant, the smoke curls around Algy’s throat like a scarf, dirty and grubby with oil, then dissipates and sneaks down his throat, warming him. It is comforting to have someone – he hardly notices anything but legs and bosom – remove his damp coat, fuss over the water still running from his hair, and shoo him to a seat just through the heavy curtains.

Dazedly, he gropes through the once-bright cushions for the seat, nestling himself in among bolsters, rugs and, oddly, an abandoned lighter. Shrugging, he joins in smoking with everyone else, doing his best to add to the atmosphere, quickly realising that not thinking clearly is a blessing.

It could be the main reason he comes here, tagging along with the older pilots.

Or that reason could be the figure – a pair of the one who spirited away his soaked clothing – nearby, shimmering around and showing more than should be possible in a top and skirt.

The cigarette was a bad idea; his mouth is dry.

Swallowing, the only sensations he is privy to is the slide of saliva, the steady beat of his heart. At one time, coming in here caused immediate, more juvenile reactions. As late as last month, his heart rate increased. Now, even with a figure swarming forwards, surging around him and promising much, much more than he could hope to keep up with, all he can feel is the warm caress of cigarette smoke, the rough feel of uniform against his throat.

She dismisses him and crawls across to the seat next door. Algy hadn’t even realised there was someone there.

Silently, drowned out by crooning and murmuring, soft sounds of a kind you hardly hear any more, the man opposite him raises his eyes and fixes them first on the girl, then on Algy. She tugs his tunic buttons and stormy eyes flash back to her, mouth a little open, ready for a low-pitched moan. She smooths his shoulders and he swallows and then reaches up, slowly, oh so slowly, to feel the material she is wearing.

Somehow, Algy knows the material is soft, pliable, but the girl is not, will not mould to rough, brown hands and be caressed, preferring to caress and then retreat. He feels nothing at this revelation.

The girl swarms up, pressing herself against the cushions and bolsters, hardly touching the dwarfed man below her, then moves on. The man is left sagging, fumbling for a cigarette, licking his lips and staring, almost unseeing, at Algy.

Casually, Algy leans across and places his half-burnt smoke into chapped pilot’s lips. Their hands touch for a fleeting moment.

If things were as he’d been led to believe, Algy would now be rushed upstairs, where for a price he could feel much, much more than the slow tremble which is perambulating from his index finger to his chest, then further. He’s not really aware of making the decision not to move after the female. It’s more an inevitability, a product of the lethargy, the dim interior. To move would be to disturb things, to rock the boat, to throw a spanner in the works (though more dropping than throwing, given his current state of mind), while to stay still and savour having feeling again is both familiar and treasured. Returning from altitude has the same general overtones.

Once the cigarette has been smoked, the languid pose of his companion shifts, eventually wavers upright. Algy has to shift his eyes from the sensual performance, and finds it too hard to do so. He instead gets caught up in the eyes of one of the ‘new girls’ who is circulating.

The buxom form at his side beckons with a presumptuous hand, promising more out back. He’s already half-way through the passageway when he realises he’s desperately tired and wanting a smoke, and by then walking has become the status quo. Not long after, sequestered in a room exactly above the stage, the two of them lie on the bed – a chair has not been provided – and share a cigarette. They pass it one to another, and it gets damp where their lips touch.

Finished, Algy lolls, content. There are thick curtains on the window and the only light is three or five flickering candles, dancing in the inhale-exhale of the occupants, the only movement. Sound from downstairs blocks out awareness of anything further away, and it’s all the same as being underwater. The noise gets louder and Algy opens one eye to see the figure next to him wriggling, butterfly-like, from once-pretty clothes, then shifting. “Take it off.”

Algy blinks and follows orders. There are plenty of reasons why he should – it’s not the most comfortable thing he’s worn, to start with – and to be honest he thinks the feel of skin on skin would be good right now. He’s not thinking any further than seconds ahead, but his body and the woman is. Shifting brings his right nipple into contact with a hot mouth, and everything goes on from there.

Ten minutes later, he’s back in the seats, waiting for his companions to finish.

That night, Algy drags Biggles up to half-consciousness when he slips into bed and falls immediately asleep, hair brushing his forehead and breath a gentle puff. Biggles lies in bed and talks to himself, letting the now known warmth of Algy slide through him. It smells of cheap perfume and there’s a strong underlying scent of sex. And then, turning into the warmth and breathing deeply, he falls asleep almost immediately.

***

“Biggles, Biggles....” the mutters are sleepy and a head turns towards the sound. Slowly it shakes a little, blinking a couple of times. “Come on, we’ve got a patrol and I can’t get out.” The voice is rough and familiar, without any uneasiness or hurry and Biggles slowly removes the arms he’s wrapped around the man in his bed, his eyes focussing on the features peering at him. Sometime during his troubled sleep he’d turned over and now had hardly to turn his head to bring Algy into focus. “Do we really? Couldn’t you have climbed out over me?”

Algy smirks, “Not without waking you,” and he yawns widely before nudging his cousin aside. Biggles saves himself from a tumble out of bed by standing and heading towards the remains of their flying-kit room. There were just enough sidcot suits to get them into the air in their usual flights, but there would be no all-squadron reprisal. Wide awake now, Biggles dresses and joins Algy and their newest arrival, a boy called Jones. All that runs through his mind as muscle-memory takes over the intricate buckles is that Algy smelt of perfume and sex and there must have been some kind of reaction to that occurring while he was sleeping. No one snuggles up to someone otherwise.

***

Their day is terrible. All but three of them are grounded at any one time, and they all feel impotent when relaxing in their chairs in their draughty corner of the mess. The rest of the buildings are being repaired by either their men or the local French. Algy sits and fiddles at the piano for most of the day, strange discordant melodies, wandering lyrical madrigals and some showy numbers when there are people crowded around him. Biggles tries to read, tries to play cards and tries, with more success, to smoke his way through a sample of everyone else’s cigarettes. People trickle in and out all day and in between fits of despondency, they work on clearing up the last of the mess the bombs made. Revenge is uppermost still, but once they’ve got rid of plenty of eggs, up and down the circus bases, they feel better. That night, Algy feels completely washed out, physically exhausted from hauling loads and emotionally fatigued from fixing up his home, not to mention flying two sorties.

They’re still sharing beds, and he crawls into his first, turns over and goes to sleep. It’s a trick he picked up years ago and has yet to lose completely, one which Biggles envies him. Biggles himself changes and slides into bed a good half hour later, having finished another briefing with Mullen, Mahoney and Mac, managing to lose all the blankets in his haste to get to bed.

Algy snorts, wriggles, then turns over and glares. “You utter clot,” he grunts, levering his head just upright enough for one arm to snake back and retrieve the pillow under it. Biggles ducks just as the blow falls and Algy is suddenly sitting on the edge of the bed, looking cold and disgruntled. Still, he picks up the pillow and takes another swipe, which Biggles has no qualms about returning.

“I assume you’ll make the bed,” Algy finally comments, once they’ve fully woken up and then tired themselves out again.

“Of course.” And it is made, hurriedly but warmly, which is all that matters. The bed seems smaller tonight, now that it’s cold enough for them to wear jumpers and thick socks, and coupled with the remaining lumps in the bed, Algy and Biggles are curled around each other, finding space. “All this excitement has woken me up, rather,” Algy mutters, before falling swiftly asleep. Biggles has no such irony, lying awake with Algy's breath stirring his hair every few seconds. He twists, trying to find a softer patch of blanket and a little more space to stretch out. Stuck between Algy and the edge of the bed, he finally decides it doesn’t matter that he’s pressing firmly against Algy’s back. It is warm and solid, things which he feels are missing from normal daily life.

He lies like that – warm back against Algy, cold front facing the room, for a while until he realises he’ll get no sleep at all with such a cold chest, and turns over. He’s well into the trance-like state which precedes sleep, the almost dizzy feeling of disorientation (or rather, not really bothering to orientate), and he slides his left arm underneath Algy, the better to balance.

They wake pressed together, Biggles vaguely aware something is wrong before he figures out what it is. Algy glances at him, and then very deliberately shifts backwards against him. His cousin blinks, but when it happens again can’t help himself from surging up to meet him. It’s hard and fast and release is a blessing into which he sinks.

***

Biggles blinks himself awake in the morning aware of an uncomfortable feeling, which he realises with a slight groan is....ejaculate. He feels his face flush and tries to work out a quick and subtle exit strategy.

Unfortunately at his groan Algy has twitched and is now well inside the embrace he vaguely remembers initiating for warmth. He shifts uneasily and brushes, half distressed and half amused, against a familiar predicament. There’s another twitch from the body next to him and he thinks, ‘to hell with it’ and tightens his grip.

After all, he can always blame it on the smell, like he almost had to last night, can’t he?

It escapes his attention until later that Algy had, in fact, gone straight to his – James Bigglesworth’s – bed that night, and not to some strumpet. There’s a warm feeling inside when brown eyes finally look up at him, half fearful and ashamed, half sated and devil-may-care. James lets his arms give way – they’ve been holding him upright for many minutes now – and flops down on top of his companion. This results in a kiss, which results in further actions which result in someone banging on the wall telling them to take their damned fight elsewhere, preferably 1200 feet away and to the east.

***

During the next few weeks, as beds are recreated and appropriate space for each man re-assigned, they experience the same tearing release several times a week. Neither wants to call it anything else. Algy refuses to initiate it and Biggles refuses to stop rationalising it as a cheap way to get to sleep. There’s no more lying half- awake waiting for Algy to return, reeking of the brothel, thus no more half- asleep flying. Certainly there is no inability to focus on the enemy while flying given their deeper understanding.

A year later, stuck in a German camp in the middle of the desert, he reflects rather ruefully that it’s a problem it didn’t affect his flying or he wouldn’t be in this awful mess. Still, he puts on a brave face as he tries to reconcile that he has killed his best friend and cannot quite hide his relief when he’s found instead safe and well. The time he spends wearing the mask makes it more than just a face, it seeps a few layers deeper. But however hard he tries to believe that Algy has gone and he’s mourned and must continue, it doesn’t ever touch the deepening hole which sits below his wings. The whole episode should pass almost unremarked (they’re in a war, after all) if it weren’t for the glimmer which sneaks into Biggles’ mind as he wakes up alone in the enemy camp, stopping himself from crying out in RFC slang in his own voice.

When the space beneath the coveted brevet begins to expand again, warmed by good English companionship and the knowledge of a close friend a few miles away and getting closer, he allows the mask to fall and the glimmer to expand in its place. The suspicion hangs there, undefined and almost indefinable, while they again assure themselves of their old standing: bed mates on cold, tense nights, never talking about it.

***

Algy flings off his cap and goggles, laughing up into the clear sky as he stretches up his arms, dropping the accoutrements into the cockpit. His laugh goes on for a while, rising in pitch a little before another man comes close, swinging down from the hump on his Camel and striding across. “Come on old chap,” he snaps, a little high-pitched himself. Algy shakes his head then grins a little foolishly. “Sorry. I take after you, evidently.” They walk off together, arms swinging close with every other stride.

Algy doesn’t know always what provokes those attacks of hysterical laughter, but it’s probably similar to whatever sparks off his closest companions. Either they laugh or they cry. He’s not much given to either but on the whole laughter is the lesser of two evils, and he ensures he gets a lot of it. He aims to grab some in the thinner air of ‘the office’ and plenty more in the thick soup of the mess. He tries for some on the airstrip, some on the porch and some in the ops room.

He never, ever, takes it into the bedroom.

Once undressed, lying in starched sheets and thick blankets (why they can get starch and not fuel, wool and not food is a logistical puzzle as old as war itself) he reaches out to the warm body next to him, gropes a moment, and all thoughts of emotional reactions fly out of his head.

Physical is all that counts, here, now, together.

***

Biggles doesn’t always know what provokes those attacks of hysteria in Algy but he has his suspicions, though no hopes they’re born of the same feeling that his are. Either they laugh or they cry. Child-Algy wasn’t much given to either but on the whole laughter is the lesser of two evils, and he ensures he gets a lot of it. Algy always laughs when flying, and in the thick fug of the mess. He tries for laughter on the airstrip, on the porch and in the ops room.

He never, ever, takes it into the bedroom.

Once undressed, lying in starched sheets and thick blankets (why they can get starch and not fuel, wool and not food is a logistical puzzle Biggles leaves to others) Algy in his new assurance might reach out to the warm body next to him, grope then orientate himself and be deep in action-reaction before James can fully take in the parted lips and wide eyes which are next to him.

Always Algy makes it clear that this is only physical – that’s all there can be between them.

***

It’s the fact of not talking about it which affects Biggles most. Women are always talking. Most of the other men never understand, not properly. Marie rabbitted on forever. It was pleasant enough, in a way, but he always felt the only way he could stop her from talking was by otherwise occupying her and sometimes he didn’t feel like it, just didn’t feel up to it. Algy doesn’t need to know about India or school-years (he was there, for some of them) or the rest of his family buggering off the earth, as he refers to it. Just like Biggles doesn’t need reminding of who Algy was before all this. Who Algy was doesn’t matter; burnt away in all sorts of ways which are graven in nooks and crannies Biggles is aware of. He’d like to explore them more fully. His cousin is important to him in many ways. One day, in a fit of tidiness caused from packing up France and leaving, he tried to list them.

__How do I love thee, let me count the ways...._ _

Algy is his own flesh and blood

Algy knows what it’s like to fly

Algy knows what it’s like to fly in a war

Algy hasn’t judged him for losing his heart to a French chit

Algy has always been there with an even crazier scheme

Algy provides him, usually, with whatever it takes to get over the various deaths and dismemberments inherent in war

Algy is aware of all the character flaws in James

Algy is the handsomest man James has ever laid eyes on

Algy is the only person who has called him James still living with him

__My love is as rare as any he belied with false compare._ _

All of this was fine and well and good and many another cliché, but it rubbed him the wrong way. It didn’t capture the essence of their relationship.

He realised, after sitting down alone at a meal they’d planned for two, this was because it was about Algy and for Algy there could be no relationship between them.

***

For many reasons Biggles stores it all up in his mind until, one cold night, Algy comes pounding around to his flat, nose red and aristocratic, muffled in a thick black coat without a touch of colour, body boy- thin yet old. It’s not soon until Christmas and Algy has been out with some new friend, a musical man whom Biggles has met once and didn’t like.

“That was either the best or worst night of my life,” he declares, standing as his coat and hat are removed and hung up, cold hands not trusted to the task. “I’m not that much younger than you.” He adds with a smile, his usual comment when being mothered by his cousin. Biggles wonders if Algy realises how true that is, or if he spends his whole life trying to catch up with older, more foolish men. It’s somehow endearing. Sitting down again he refills his own glass from the emptying bottle and is finally able to fill the second glass in front of him.

“This year may well be referred to as the year in which the most imbedded Christmas tradition made its appearance, but not without a few changes. The idea of singing and reading the entire Christmas story in one sitting is nice, but I must admit to being confused by some of their choices. Though __Irby__ is a nice thing to start off with, given it encapsulates the entire thing. I sang that solo, once,” he adds, reaching out for the drink.

“I’m sure you sang it handsomely.” Biggles comments, then perches next to his cousin and reaches out. “You remember when the aerodrome got bombed and we spent each night together?” Algy nods into his glass, “I didn’t think anything of it, you know. But then I got to thinking, especially after Egypt, and I thought, well, it’s not like we’re beset by ravishing females and, well, I don’t presume to speak for you, but I’m fairly well attached to you, y’know.”

Algy looks up. “You mean you want me to stop thinking that all you’re interested in is whatever pleasure I can give you and start thinking that you’re more interested in the both of us – in me?” He sounds a little scornful of the prospect and Biggles hastens to assure him. The words come more easily when he is warm and relaxed.

“Yes, I am. You’re the best fellow I know, Algernon, and probably the most attractive.” He gestures at the smart church- going suit Algy is currently sporting and adds, with a half- twist of his mouth, “Especially all dressed up.”

Algy raises one shoulder wearily and places his glass deliberately back next to the almost- empty bottle. “You expect me to jump into your arms, don’t you? There’s a whole country out there, in case you hadn’t realised. People I haven’t seen for months, years, coming back wanting to catch up, to pick up where we left off in some cases.... People talking and acting as they wouldn’t four years ago and I quite like it.”

There’s plenty of options of places to stay tonight, when his own flat is overrun with repairs and he doesn’t want to be out of London. However he knows the reception he’ll get here and is comfortable with a single bed, even if he hasn’t slept on this particular mattress before. Biggles doesn’t need to know any of this yet.

“You are quite finished? It’s not that I doubt you but I hardly think that the boys you knew four years ago would be willing or able to take up where you left off, and even if they did, how many of them would understand when you’re gone for days at a time, unable to stay away from the ‘plane and all it entails? And those people you are so keen to meet now. What do they know of you? What do they care? Do they have a vested interest in keeping you alive through the worst war we’ve ever seen and can they possibly, possibly feel that twinge when there’s not a well-known jacket hanging up and a pair of boots sitting by the door? How can they possibly ever hope to feel that for someone they’ve only just met?”

Algy sighs, “Well, they might have.” But he doesn’t object when a soft whisper of still-chaffed lips brushes his skin.

“There’s no one here but us, and nowhere to be tomorrow.”

Algy glances swiftly upwards, “Well, in that case, I suppose a really good, long exploration would be in order, wouldn’t it? How big is your bed?”

 

***

“I’ve always found it much easier to say that simple banality ‘can I offer you a light?’ than any number of things women expect.” The man, ex-army and clearly officer class, explained, puffing happily on his cigarette. “I mean, a man has so much more finesse, so fewer expectations.”

Algy nodded, searching for an easy escape and finding none immediately forthcoming. This had started out as a simple party for...discreet gentlemen...and ended up being a night in which he had to fend off no fewer than four bores, three women (all on the way here, and thankfully not in the building itself) and five young men of about his age who wanted to know, among other things, whether they could get a free flight. It wasn’t that Algy was against such a thing in general; however he was deliberately dressed in civilian clothes and hadn’t mentioned aeroplanes once, of his own volition. This, he decided viciously, is what happened when you had the RFC emblem on both your cigarette case and your lighter. It was those damned thankful fools in France who’d done what had seemed a nice gesture at the time. Thankfully the current bore had spotted Algy’s empty glass and stood, “I’ll get you something stronger than that ginger beer you’re sipping at,” he leered, and meandered off harmlessly.

Freed, Algy sprang up and stalked off in the direction of the original party, hoping for a dance.

***

The step and click, swish and stamp of formal dancing, the shuffling of more modern styles, the laughter as the two were combined – these sounds flowed through Algernon Montgomery Lacey’s aristocratic veins as surely as flying did. It wasn’t until the music was winding down and he could hardly swallow from thirst that he smiled apologetically at his current partner, “What would you like to drink?”

Of course, as every good man knows, drink is merely a precursor if not a total euphemism, and repetition had rendered Algy particularly good at using this euphemism to devastating effect.

***

_Baroness Lacey_

_Merioneth Towers_

_Merioneth_

_Merionethshire._

_My dear Madam,_

_You may not remember me so allow me to refresh your memory – your younger nephew on your sister’s side. I beg you to remember me to your esteemed husband; however I address this unusual request to you alone, for a mothers’ touch is needed in such things._

“There you are dear and nicely worded too, very proper. I do remember him – James I recall – small child, apt to read if he wasn’t asked to play. Algernon mentions him sometimes.” Mrs. Lacey pauses and her husband grunts. Duty done, he returns to his paper, she to her letter, now adding asides in her mind.

_As you are aware it is Algernon’s birthday_

So unlike those crass ilk who call him Algy.

_And I wish to propose a present which would require your approval._

Clever man! Thinking ahead. His wife is a very lucky woman. She thought of her own man, able to recall batting and bowling statistics at a moment's notice but letting important dates pass him by.

_I am aware Algernon had access to a good piano in a separate wing and I wish to suggest its removal to London at my expense for his enjoyment. It would leave you with the concert grand and the upright. I wish for this instrument particularly due to its rare tone and good action – which Algernon has mentioned with pleasure more than once._

As he should, that piano room being a second home for years. Thump thump and it all gone to waste with the war letting him fly instead. I wouldn’t have let him in so young if I hadn’t known James would look after him.

_And now, madam, to impose one last time. I wonder if a parcel of such music as he was enjoying playing last could be arranged to be collected as well._

_I trust to your judgement in this matter and remain, in all things_

_Sincerely yours_

_Major Bigglesworth, DFM, MC._

__

“I can hardly refuse given the lack of pianists we have. If only his brother had shown more interest in music,” Mrs Lacy muses, then raises her voice, “Husband dear? That old piano Algernon had, I’m going to send it down to him with some music. You don’t mind, do you?”

He grunts and looks up. “Mind? I should say I don’t, with the pound as it is and the stocks drying up, not to mention the way our top order collapsed last week! You give that boy what pleasure he can get. If I could play I’d beat it night and day.” And that was the end of that, as far as they were concerned.

***

“A piano, Major? You have a wireless and a very nice gramophone already, not to mention the youngest of my trouble-makers whistling at all hours.”

Biggles tried to summon some of the charm he usually left to Algy. “I know, Mrs. Symes, but the difference between recorded and real music is still there – otherwise why would the theatre halls still exist? I assure you Algy is anything but a mere amateur.” He smiled warmly as her face softened and he was never sure if it was him or the memory of Algy – who had been known to charm birds from the sky – which did it.

“Is it for his birthday?” she enquired and Biggles nodded, “Yes it is, so I’m sure you won’t let him know?”

“Are we going somewhere?” Of course Algy had arrived with Ginger, tousle haired and steadfastly (the both of them) refusing to grow up.

“You might be,” Mrs Symes hinted. “Do you want a picnic for you birthday this year?”

Ginger’s face lit up as he paused to listen, trying to contain his excitement at the idea of a real birthday for one of his mentors. “Could we go somewhere by air?”

Considering the map hanging behind the door, Algy admitted, “I would like that, if we had a good aircraft for it – and Ginger, you could sort out __carnets__ and such.”

Biggles looked at him, “ _ _carnets__?”

“And why not? Let’s have a run to France like proper gentlemen of leisure! It’s a while since I’ve been and Ginger needs educating.” Algy’s face lit up as he began to plan, and Mrs Symes’ smile broadened.

Biggles prevaricated for a moment, but relented, “So long as I’m allowed to double-check the paper work before we go.” Not that he didn’t trust Ginger. In fact, though he couldn’t say it, Algy being in France left the perfect gap for a piano-movers to do their job. Biggles was sure a sheet tacked from the ceiling would prevent premature viewing and allow him to sort some things out: pictures he wanted mounted and stacks of music laid out. Ginger wasn’t in on the picture, to prevent his giving it away, and Biggles was looking forward to their expressions.

***

On their arrival back in England, following a prolonged picnic in France and sunshine, Ginger offered to re-house the plane and Biggles took off by taxi for home in the ensuing banter.

“There’s no need to hurry back.” Algy surmised, when Ginger seemed torn between inspecting a coveted flying-jacket and jumping into a taxi. “Biggles has a couple of finishing touches so we’ll give him time to finish up.”

Ginger looked at him with frank admiration. “How d’you figure that?

“Easy. He shot off without any other explanation. Now finish gawking and let’s stretch our legs a bit, hmmm?” Ginger looked put out at the idea of walking but it turned out that ‘stretching their legs' meant haring to a bus stop and awaiting public transport. "Faster than walking, slower and cheaper than a taxi," Algy smiled, "Now come on. Let's work out what the problem is with that 'plane you were telling me about." Ginger had brought back stories of ‘unfixable’ problem aircraft assigned to apprentices a few months further along than himself, and Algy and Biggles had enjoyed talking over what they knew about engines, providing their new companion with the knowledge they had.

It wasn't until they alighted a few stops away, deeming it faster to walk along the busy streets, that Algy showed signs of interest in what had formerly been his small corner rooms. Some judicious pushing and noise-making had allowed the three of them to have a floor to themselves, and it was there that they repaired, warm from their brisk walk.

"Hello Biggles! Redecorating, are we?" Algy spotted the sheet and raised an eyebrow at an equally amused Ginger.

"There you two are. What have you been doing?” But his smile, taking in their smudged faces and general appearance, belied any possible exasperation. “Wash and change. Mrs. Symes will have tea ready in half an hour." Biggles hovered at the door as Algy sent Ginger off to scrub – “You're the dirtier lad” – and smiled. "That picnic worked out better than the last one we went on, didn't it, Algy?"

Algy had to agree, “Easier to enjoy yourself when no one's angry at you. Drink?" He proffered the whiskey and Biggles nodded.

"Just this once." He clearly had something on his mind. "I know this isn't what you're used to Algy, no big parties, just dinner at home after a picnic lunch."

Algy smiled. “It's nice actually. I never particularly wanted Great Aunt Maude’s handkerchiefs and I've long since lost interest in dressing up every night. This has been a good day." They smiled at each other till Ginger came in and packed Algy off to wash.

"Can I look behind the sheet, chief?"

Biggles shook his head. “Absolutely not. You'll upset it. Run down and tell Mrs Symes the birthday boy is at home now, and tea may be served as it suits her." He heard the gleeful sounds of sliding down the banisters and sighed. Sometimes, perhaps because of rubbing elbows constantly with Algy and Ginger, followed by periods of separation, or perhaps because of their antics, he felt very alone.

Algy stood at the door and considered taking his cousin up on the sigh. Eventually, he decided not to. It might all be due to Ginger or it could be about anything else, things he wanted to forget.

"So, can I open my present yet?" he asked instead, childish glee warring with aristocratic features as he sipped his drink.

"You're how old?" Biggles joked, "You're supposed to be older and wiser."

Algy grinned. “I haven't touched it yet – that's the wiser part. And I'm in the same decade as you. What more do you want?"

"Some common manners would be a good start. Wait for your other guest to get back."

"You mean you wrapped manners? I'm impressed."

Biggles snorted, "I gather your parents didn't work out how to."

"Mrs Symes says dinner'll be ten minutes and she hopes you're hungry." Ginger announced. “I am," he added, looking at his stomach. "Haven't eaten for days."

"Try hours," suggested Biggles.

"Minutes more like – I see the gravy on your mouth," Algy added. "Since when were young boys this hungry? I don't..." he trailed off as images arose, unbidden, of not being able to keep dinner down through terror, or breakfast through relief, or lunch through grief. "Well," he continued, "there's some catching up to do." Ginger glanced between the two pairs of white-tight lips and pressed his own shut, before casually turning up the wireless in time for the seven o’clock news. Biggles shot him a speculative glance with a smile at the end of it and they let the banal words wash between them before Algy tried to help Mrs Symes and the serving girl and was sent away to sit and wait.

"There, Mr Lacey. Soup, meat and vege, cake. Can I trust you gentlemen to serve yourselves?" she spoke with the twinkling acquaintance of long suffering and they smiled and assured her they'd all be fine, really.

"Birthday boy first," Biggles smirked, as Algy removed the ladle from Gingers' fist.

"First he's a guest so he goes first, now it's the birthday boy first... you want me to give in and give it to you." Algy smirked, dolling bowls of soup for everyone, one ladleful in turn.

Biggles smiled. "That was the general idea." A discourse on sneaky cousins carried them through till cake.

It was Ginger who laughingly pointed at a match book and suggested they'd need it with all the candles. So Biggles and Algy hunted out a conglomeration of candles – many standing next to, rather than on, the cake. "Now, smart alec, you can light them all." Ginger paled but started manfully enough. Their singing, surprisingly on key, could be heard sparking a returning chorus from the rooms above and below and Algy called out 'thank you' with a pointed comment about manners.

Once a slice of cake was eaten and the dishes stacked, Algy turned childish again.

"May I have a present now?"

Biggles rolled his eyes at Ginger. "If you talked like that he'd clip you one. We'll get no peace till we give in, I suppose, so go and get it." Algy smiled as Ginger returned holding a bag bearing familiar markings.

"You haven't!" he protested, reaching inside, and Ginger grinned, flicking a glance at Biggles.

“I have." he declared, "So beat that." In Algy's hand was a beautifully made pilot's timepiece, an exact replica of the one he had lost not so long ago.

Smiling his whimsical smile, Biggles took Algy by the hand and led him back to the main rooms. They stopped in front of the sheet and Biggles placed Algy's hand on it. "Just don't rip the sheet or there'll be trouble. It parts easily enough." The last was unnecessary – Algy was already peering at his gift.

“It's a piano" cried Ginger, "Chief, you didn't...."

Algy shushed him, “It's my one from Merioneth towers. Did you get it tuned?"

Biggles, to whom such words meant little last week, nodded. "Why do you think I was so happy to go to France? I hope you like it, Algy."

Algy nodded, fingers resting lightly on the keys. “You... you got new music, as well!" Algy's face was positively glowing and he slipped on to the stool with little bidding. A full chromatic-contrary motion starting on D was followed by some arpeggios, and he nodded once. "She tunes up nicely." He seemed to remember his audience and stood up apologetically. "Sorry, you'll get no sleep now, it's so long since I've played, so much to catch up on." Biggles eyed him carefully and seemed to be about to say something when Mrs. Symes’ head appeared at the door.

“I take it he approves, Major."

Biggles nodded distractedly but Algy turned to look at her, accusing. "How did you manage to keep it a secret? It's the best birthday haul I think I've had." His thanks brought in Ginger and Mrs Symes – her cake was a work of art – and they all smiled at his happiness.

"Will you knock us out a tune then, Mr Lacey?"

Algy prevaricated, half reluctant, half eager. “I haven't played properly for years."

Biggles shook his head. "You played two years ago, in the mess."

"Not real music, not having practised. I used to be fairly decent, so I was told."

Ginger had been eyeing the music, “I don't recognise most of this," he moaned.

Algy smiled. "It's mainly classical. We’ll go out next week and get some charts, you remind me." His fingers were caressing a tenth and he thought for a moment.

Ginger, watching carefully, saw the settling of shoulders, the spreading of knees, the centring of eyes. The first few notes were a touch loud and the pedal a little clunky but that settled down into the sensible, emotional, Bach tune.  Softly, Mrs. Symes took a couple of steps closer, abandoning her dishes on the sideboard. Ginger didn't know the tune; Mrs Symes had heard it once. Biggles frowned, words floating through his mind as he remembered the tune sung to him occasionally as a child. Unconsciously he took another step closer to the piano, leaning one hand on the end of the keyboard. A true musician, Algy hid a mistake with an interrupted cadence and smiled up into soft eyes. “As I said, I need to practise."

Mrs Symes and Ginger protested vigorously but Biggles just murmured, "So long as you don't forget to eat." Perhaps he was remembering stories of a lad keen to make the most out of his life 'without having to work'. 

“I couldn't do that, here," Algy smiled at Mrs Symes. "But that's enough for now. Listening to me practice is hardly fun, I shouldn’t think."

Once the dishes had been removed Algy poured himself a whiskey and a brandy for Biggles.

"Since it's your birthday..."started Ginger, before Algy sat down.

“Do you want whiskey or brandy?" Algy returned evenly.

"You're too young still." Biggles shook his head sternly, but Algy disagreed, saying, "How old were you, then?" as Ginger requested, "Whiskey, please."

"There was a war on, it was different." Spoken sharply.

 Nevertheless, Algy poured a finger of whiskey into a glass and passed it to Ginger as he sat down. "Please Biggles," he muttered in the ear closest to him, "Not now, not tonight." The conversation might have become bitter had Ginger not taken a sip, wrinkled his nose, taken another determined gulp and coughed violently.

“You drink this stuff?"

Algy shrugged, "You should taste what he drinks."

Gulping water, Ginger swore off drink for a few years longer.

"Where will we get the music from, Algy? I haven't seen any shops nearby."

Algy shrugged. "Most of my music is from Charing Cross, and we can go there tomorrow if you're that keen."

Biggles butted in, still a little bitter. "He's probably angling for a trip to Las Ramblas." Ginger shook his head, still trying to place the name as Algy spoke sharply.

"You saw that did you? Maybe next time we end up out that way I'd be allowed to stop off there."

"You speak as if you can only fly with me – and that I'm the one in charge."

“And aren't you" Algy countered. "Though maybe it is time for me to go off to Spain alone."

There was a silence which Ginger refused to break. Biggles peered at Algy. "You wouldn't."

“If you can, so can I. Though it won't happen till I know what I want." Algy stood again, moving towards the upright and laying out the music from the stool.

Quietly, a little shaken, Ginger bid them goodnight as the middle of a waltz – the Emperor waltz as it turned out – danced out.

Sighing, alone, Biggles sipped his drink.

"He's your responsibility. I'm the friend, not the guardian," Algy told him, clearly striving for an unconcerned tone, but falling well short.

Biggles nodded. “I'll let him wash, then I'll go and talk to him," he promised.

Algy spoke jerkily as he changed the music, exploring Rachmaninov. “I knew you would." Then, a little before the climax of Beethoven – the first full piece Biggles ever heard Algy play, sitting alone like this – "This has changed things, you understand? Music is...powerful."

Biggles nodded. “I'd rather hoped it would." The reply was hidden in a few crashing chords and a flighty run. Algy continued exploring – and he couldn't explain the difference to someone between what he was doing now and practising, which he couldn’t do so close to sleep, unless they were musical and knew it already – while Biggles talked to Ginger and changed into pyjamas and a dressing gown, and sat and listened.

***

“Alright?” A warm hand on his shoulder gently brought him out of his daze.

“Thanks.” Algy smiled up at him; shrugging off musical atrophy he stood and dropped a fond kiss on the cheek beside him, smiling. “Why didn’t they ask you to reprise your tart act? I thought you looked very fetching in it.”

James stepped away, glancing at the music spread liberally over the lounge floor. “You looked better, they decided. How many propositions did you get that night?”

Algy shrugged, “Didn’t go home with any of them though, did I?”

“No, you did not. So how was the rehearsal then?”

Stretched out on the couch now, Algy considered. “Well, thanks. Should be ready to raise plenty of ye olde cash, given we still have three days.” Clicking his fingers he added, “Remind me why...”

“Because you’ve yet to turn down a request to do good, and you enjoy it. Sit forward, maestro.” Sure hands started removing from his shoulders all the knots of long practise. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when you make me want to dance, you know. You always do – make me want to dance, that is.”

Algy smiled down at his knees. “I’ll dance with you afterwards, I promise.”

***

Dolled up and carrying a sheet of music, Algy leant across the gear stick for a brief peck.

“Thank you. Hope you enjoy it. Take care.” And he was out and striding the last few steps in the back alley towards back stage, letting himself in with assurance.

Sighing, his lover watched him go and then pulled back out into the traffic, searching for a carpark.

Algy slipped off his jacket, laid it next to the piano and placed the music on top of the instrument.

“Sound check or another run through?” he inquired.

“Sound check. We have a microphone – you are singing, of course, tonight?”

“Of course.”

Paraphernalia, rushing bodies – each intent on their own task – and musicians lolling around waiting, occasionally playing a snatch of song or fiddling with their tuning. Finally they received the thumbs up. “Let’s have it then. A nice opening number, if you would.”

Great action, much fiddling of stands and sheets of music, then a brief silence before they head off for the first time together since 1916.

***

There’s something incredibly romantic about sitting watching other people dance to some crooning love songs, Biggles reflects. He has to be careful, sitting here. He can’t – much though he would like to – keep his attention fixed on the upright figure engrossed in the moment on the stage. Whenever he spots a lady who’s been nearby for a while, he stands and dances with her. They have desultory conversation and then he is free again. This has occurred with most of the women remaining. They’ve been at this for the last four hours and most people have gone home. Those who haven’t are doing nothing more than swaying, supported by the gentle thrum of another ballad. Finally the saxophonist stands back up and calls out, “Thank you very much.”

Soon, there’s only James left on the floor. Clean up won’t begin until tomorrow. The other band members are tired, having effectively sung themselves to sleep. Algy remains, poised. James feels a sudden rush of warm dread and knows that whatever happens, this song is for him. He has a half thought that it will be the same Bach as they’d first heard on the receipt of the piano. He hopes it won’t be. __Von himmel hoch ich komm dach heir__ is hardly what he feels like. He wants something....

Algy touches the keys and James sinks back into the darkest corner he can find. The music stirs memories but as yet he can’t pin down what the tune is. Images from a cold afternoon make him shiver, combining with the occasional gust of air as the other musicians wander their way through the hall, and out to the pub across the street. Algy plays on.

Slowly the music swells, coming up from the almost-quiet it had been. Broad fingers, ones James can picture easily from years of acquaintance, balance tune and accompaniment. Just when James thinks the rhapsody will fail from lack of orchestra, Algy hums along. This isn’t a careless hum, but a full throated one imitating the orchestra. His hands continue to weave their magic.

James knows then that he is unseen and unknown. He smiles thinly at the ego which had spoken to him earlier. Algy thinks he’s alone, and he’s performing, opening up, as he never would to an audience. He pauses, poised on the edge of pathetic recapitulation, then plunges in, restating the theme tenderly. He savours it, rolling it through his mind, out his arms to his fingers and then along the keyboard. The enjoyment, the care, the longing and love all comes out.

James fishes blindly for his handkerchief, not taking his eyes off the slumped figure in front of him. They remain still for some minutes, before Algy shakes himself upright and gathers the music spread over the top of the piano into a pile and then levers himself upright.

“Bravo!”

He jumps, unaware there had been anyone in the room apart from himself. His fellow musicians had all gone to the pub and he’d assumed James had gone there as well. Slowly, turning, he watches warily as the slim figure detaches itself from shadows and comes forwards.

He notices, with a touch of pride, that a handkerchief is just disappearing into the pocket of his companion. “I wasn’t aware....”

“I’m pleased you’ve put that piano back at home to good use.” The words are said softly, eyes searching for some confirmation that he is understood; looking down again when he finds he is.

“I think we should get you home and miss the pub completely. I’m sure if anything important comes up you’ll be notified.” Algy’s music is removed from his arms and tucked under the left arm of James, the right then being held out for Algy himself. “I know I promised you a dance but I don’t feel that jumping into your arms from a great height is the best way to begin such a venture.” Algy smiles, shakily.

“Not at all, old boy.”

“Come on, then, your taxi awaits.”

***

"Sometimes I wonder at the difference between you as a small boy and now." Biggles comments, when Algy slips into the easy chair next to him and stretches out languidly, eyes half closed, having played his way through the newest disturbance to their lives – a boy by the name of Dick Denver. He brought with him a troubling taxi ride, a thirst for adventure and the promise of a long trip with a treasure hunt at the end of it.

"Maybe more talking is called for?" Algy yawns.

"Talking is not something a well-brought-up Englishman does," Biggles grunts. "I thought you were a model child."

Algy shrugs, "You know I perform. I play to an audience."

"You mean all those times you sat talking with the adults we could have been outside having fun?"

"How much time did we really spend talking with them? Anyway, it got us your favourite titbits, I seem to recall, and a ride in the boat."

Biggles smiles, “If it weren't for the war you'd still be potty about boats."

"What do you mean if? I still am, I just realise planes are better, is all. Now. Let's have it?"

Biggles sinks back, then sits up straighter, all languor in their rambling conversation gone.

“If you insist. Why the sudden urge to go treasure hunting by yourself?"

"Why the constant inability to allow me to do so?" Algy counters, "You always mother me. I'm not that much younger than you, you know. Besides, any difference we might have had in maturity has been ironed out."

Biggles settled himself comfortably before speaking quietly, eyes fixed in the thousand mile stare.

The words are not spoken. More, they have taken form over the years following the Great War, the greatest technological development the world has seen. Having been formed they’ve been waiting, holed up next to the half-forgotten Shakespeare and poetry learned for long-forgotten exams, to crawl forward, shamed at their existence. It takes almost five minutes for them to do so and they need encouragement from the silent figure uneasily seated in the opposite chair, brown eyes intercepting the stare somewhere around the 500 mile mark.

"You aren't the only one left in your family, your girl wasn't a spy; you came later. You didn't almost kill your observer and have to pretend to be German and think you'd shot down your best friend." There are other things he can add to the list: Mahoney and Wilks unable to provide the satiation he craves, Mullen trusting him with more than he deserves, that ridiculous stunt they pulled to get a name cleared, or watching the sunflowers finally fade from yellow to gold to brown to memory, red white and blue returning as the only colours in the grey. However, he doesn’t. The words have been born, have done their job and now cannot be forgotten, no matter how slowly they did their deed.

Algy answers intently, every word as measured as his companion’s. "You didn't have the overbearing mother to drive you to snobbery, ensuring the closest you ever got to a girl was a whore. You didn't put in a stint in the bloodiest day of the war, only to see the other survivor in your company shot for desertion when he went looking for someone to join fronts with. Your closest friend didn't try and destroy himself with drink and smokes while you were restrained by a CO who cared too much to turn a blind eye." He doesn't feel up to continuing with more, deeper, wounds or addressing those just uncovered. He should be too old to feel the absolute, bone weariness of energetic youth, the mind-weariness of a student, but he feels both, and he doesn't try to fight them.

"You were wronged. I was wronged. The whole damn world was wronged. Can we try and leave it at that, or do we want to find out who has more hurt? Would you prefer to dispose of it or wallow in it?" Despite what he says about maturity, the reality is he sat English exams not that long ago and recalls much more easily Shakespeare, Virgil, Dunne, Tennyson, Hoffman and various lesser-known writers than his cousin, accesses that set of ideas more easily. So his words, similarly brewed, flow out more easily and more of them become emboldened to follow.

Biggles' eyes narrow. “I do not wallow." But when all Algy does is glance at him, he sighs. "Yes, I wallow. I mope, I rage. And... I forget. I forget about you because it's a darn sight easier to remember the ones that aren't here. Dead men tell no tales, don’t make you feel so much”.

***

Since Biggles first suggested, years ago now, that they be closer companions, he’s been trying to push the idea through Algy’s thick head. The last few weeks when they’ve been discovering treasure he’s done little (aside from their stint in the naval vessel when they ensured each other’s cleanliness) and they’ve since been sorting out the paperwork involved in finding a kings ransom. Their care for Dick Denver has led them to engage rooms near the naval college, staying on as he organises a place for himself in the new year.

Two slim men can fit side by side in the big chair. Not as comfortably as they could 16 years ago, but well enough.

“It seems as if we have different ways of dealing with things, I know, but I think that actually we're the same. Anyway." He heaves a huge sigh, ruffling Algy's unkempt hair, and tries a smile. "We won't sleep well with this over our heads, so let's get going with the lighter stuff, shall we?"

It's only as he's saying goodnight that Algy finds the words to admit "Perhaps we weren't just coping, those nights."

“And perhaps we're having tea with the Queen next week," Biggles retorts, sliding over in the bed they’re sharing for the next few weeks, a three-bedroom suite not allowing for anything else when four people are in it.

***

Waking with a slim, strong arm tight around his chest and a similarly proportioned leg thrown over his own, Algy relaxes. James did this a few times ten years ago, after a particularly hard day ‘in the office’. It’s not that he doesn’t like it, per se, rather he wishes that sometimes there was a little more talking about it, a little more ability to vocalise their relationship. He knows from experience there’s no easy way up and out short of waking his companion up and there’s no need to do so if the quiet from the boys’ rooms are anything to go by.

They’d considered, briefly, having the boys share a room, but Ginger is still prone to bad nights, and Dick admits to not being a very tidy sleeper. Algy had demurred from inflicting his ‘tendency to snore’ on anyone who wasn’t used to it, and the idea of Biggles sharing a room with anyone other than Algy was laughable to the two boys. The ‘snoring’ tended to be less terrible when wrapped in a warm pair of arms and woken, gently, from night terrors. They’d both had plenty of practise doing so by now.

***

“Mail for you, Major, from royalty.” Mrs Symes doesn’t disguise her interest, a purely human interest, and it endears her to them.

Biggles, seated with the two boys at the breakfast table, smiles and says, “We’d better see what it’s about then, hadn’t we? Would you pass me the opener, Mrs Symes, please?” She smiles and does so, then waits to be sent away.

Biggles opens it briskly, peers into it, and fishes out a smooth, thick piece of parchment with broad black strokes on it.

“They want the five of us to pop over for tea next week,” he announces, “Something about having made a substantial contribution to the countries’ coffers with old pieces of eight. So, we’ll have to see about some clothes, I suppose. Here you go – don’t get marmalade on it.” He passes the letter to Mrs Symes as the boys rush to the sink to clean their sticky fingers, and stands up slowly. “You can tell your father the good news, Dick,” he adds, on his way out the door and through the corridor. Algy is presiding in the bathroom and he tells him the news through the door, a note of wonder in his voice. He adds, somewhat unnecessarily given the sudden shouting and slamming of doors, that they’re alone again, the two boys gone to impart the news far and wide.

Approximately five minutes later, seated on their now-shared bed, he hears the sounds of a damp, stiff door (such as the one in their bathroom) opening then closing. Soft footsteps are the only warning he gets before Algy appears.

He’s wearing a very small towel. And a very large grin.

“Perhaps?” he inquires, deceptively calm.

“Well, there was plenty of precedent, but their majesties don’t always run with precedent, though they inflict it upon the court easily enough.” Algy arches an eyebrow and waits.

“There was hardly a perhaps about it – like there’s not a perhaps between us... for me anyway. I don’t know how to do it any other way.”

“I’ve been trying to teach you for close on the last ten years, you know.” Algy’s voice is still measured, calm, his grin now a small play around the corners of his mouth. “Should I be employing harsher methods?”

“No. You are perfect as you are.” It doesn’t specifically answer the question... but that’s a side issue. “I promise I’ll be a better student. There are lots of reasons I haven’t in the past...” with a glance upwards he pushes on, “But that’s the past. It’s funny; you bring the best out in me, but only when I’m dealing with other people. Why is that, do you think?”

Four steps and an outstretched hand. “James.”

“Shall we discuss it later, then?” He tries to respond calmly, rationally, but there’s a very naked, just washed, Algy standing in front of him, and typically he himself is wearing a shirt and jumper and trousers and shoes and socks.

Then he’s not. At least, he thinks he isn’t. It’s a little out of his sphere of thought, what his toes are doing, and it doesn’t cross his mind to consider his chest when his trousers are most certainly lying on the floor.

When there’s a brief lull, as the door is locked, he takes stock. Definitely undressed. Definitely in a room alone with a very willing Algy. Definitely keen to continue what they were doing. Certainly willing to do whatever it takes, whatever he is told to do.

Algy stalks towards him, the necessary steps morphing into predatory ones, looking at him steadily.

“Comments?”

James opens his mouth. James closes his mouth.

“Thought not.”

***

“James. James, come on, now, wake up...”

Slowly, coupled with some very insistent kissing and shaking, the tousled head next door surfaces. As soon as the situation makes itself clear he’s sitting up and alert – years of practise have drilled it into him.

“What?” He sounds grumpier than he is.

“We’re wanted. Raymond wants to come over here in half an hour and eat us out of house and home. Ginger isn’t back and we’re about to be sent away for a while – he had that sort of tone on him.”

“Ah.” There’s a momentary lull, then Algy swings back out of bed and begins throwing on clothes. “I shall go and inform Mrs. Symes. You shall take a much needed wash. I doubt Raymond wants to know all the details of your night last night.”

“He’ll just get jealous.” James smiles, standing as well. “I get that a lot, when I’m with you. Hadn’t you noticed?” His thumb brushes along the slightly stubbly jaw line and down into the hollow clavicle. “Let them stare. They’d have to do an awful lot to get rid of me.”

Algy smiles softly, staring into eyes which have been wearing him down – calmly, aggressively or passively – for years until he finally capitulated and realised what an ass he was being.

“They couldn’t get rid of me,” he assures James, reciprocating the caress. “However, I doubt that will provide us with breakfast, and I need beefing up after such exercise as I undertook not so long ago.”

James at least has the decently to look a little abashed as he hurries to wash.

***

“I must do this more often. It’s a wonder you gentlemen are not more given to rotundity,” Raymond muses, looking regretfully at his remains of kippers, toast, marmalade and tea.

“We keep pretty active.” Algy assures, neutrally. Biggles feigns an interest in his own tea cup and wonders if his face is as pink as it feels.

“Hmm. Well, I’m pleased to hear that – it will stand you in good stead.” He surveyed the two comfortable-looking men before him, communicating with each other wordlessly, as naturally as if they had done so every day. Well, it wasn’t up to him to comment on their lack of delicacy. “As usual we have nothing definite to give you, but there are certain similarities between various disappearances that have been occurring lately.”

“You want us to go and have a sniff round then? And I suppose there’s no chance of it happening in a nice warm part of the country, is there?” Biggles was seated closest to the window and was beginning to feel the chill.

“It’s heading into winter, Biggles. There’s no such thing,” Algy reprimanded, snagging the jacket on the back of his own seat and passing it over. “Is there, sir?”

“You’re essentially correct, yes, Algy. However, I hope you’ll get a warm reception – the disappearances have all been from the recently established musical wing of the establishment. I thought of you directly, after your success last night.”

“So there’s no flying involved, apart from in name?”

“We cannot assume that – in fact I should think it would be more than likely that there is a lot of flying going on. We just don’t know where to. Here’s a map with the disappearances marked in red. I shall be available this afternoon and will expect your list of requirements then.”

“We’ll get straight onto it, sir,” Algy assured him. “You have no objection to Ginger coming along?”

“Hebblethwaite? No, I assumed he would accompany you.” They nodded, and all three went to the door, Algy holding it open. Raymond smiled at them as they stood watching him leave, Biggles slightly in front and pressing into Algy. Raymond wondered if they knew how like a newly married couple they looked, and hoped it wouldn’t ever become public.

***

“I tell you, he was just there, walking towards me.”

“Of course he was, Biggles. Now take this drink and try to get some more sleep.”

“How can I, when he’s just...Watch out!”

“Drink. You’ll feel better for it.”

Ginger tried to lose himself in the book he was looking at, tried to understand the description of electronics, but the rising voice, growing hoarser, was off putting. The knock startled him, though it was soft.

“Time for you, young Ginger, to be out with your friends, if that clamour down at the park is anything to go by.” Mrs Symes bustled in, cheerful and friendly as always, and Ginger swiped the ginger bread she’d brought up with her, grabbed his hat and jacket and hared outside.

“Thanks, Mrs Symes. I’ll be back later.”

“Of course you will. Take care.” She stood and watched him leave, cross the road and disappear, then turned back to the voices in the other room.

“But...” Then noises suggestive of drinking.

“Ah. That’s better.”

“I did say that. Come on, now, up you sit.” Much huffing, plumping of pillows and arranging of bed sheets. “Now down you go... there. Sleep tight, old boy.”

There was no answer and she hoped that was a good sign. Careful to be quiet, she tidied around the sitting room, filling in a good ten minutes before going to knock at the door, softly. “Mr Lacey?”

A gentle creaking, as of a man releasing an old chair from its bondage, and then the man – taller and gaunter than just last week – appeared. “Mrs. Symes. How are you?”

Gently he ushered her back to the sitting room and smiled, “Thank you for tidying.”

“I’m well thank you, sir, and you’re welcome. I was about to nip out for some shopping and wondered if you wanted anything? When should I expect the doctor?”

“I think we’re fine, unless you should come by a few more lemons. The doctor isn’t coming until tomorrow, when I hope he will supervise the breaking of this fever. It’s a malady he is very well acquainted with. I’m sure we can hold the fort for another day. Did I hear you send Ginger out?”

“I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not. And you should get some fresh air as well. He will be better soon, of that I am sure. No longer than a week until he can be moved, the doctor said yesterday.”

Mrs Symes smiled. “You have the patience of a saint, Mr Lacey. Well, I’ll be off then, and wishing you the best of luck.”

***

“You’d better break that damn fever tomorrow night, or I don’t know what we’ll do. Hospital I expect, though I’m not very fond of them, myself.”

His head slumps forward and is buried in almost-shaking hands. It’s a long time since he’s exhibited this tiredness, the anger that goes with it. The absolute, pressing, worry.

Looking over his shoulder, lowering his voice, even though he was the only one at home, he adds in a small, scared, voice “please James.”

***

“Let’s take a look at him, shall we?” Competence reassuring the tired man, the doctor inspected his patient and shook his head. “You are giving him as many liquids as he’ll take?”

“Yes, sir; every time he’s awake, and when he seems to be in delirium, if I think he can take it.”

“Fine, fine. Well, he’ll make the rest up when he’s better, of course. He wasn’t this bad yesterday?”

Biggles’ eyes are tightly shut, perspiration standing out on his sallow skin, breathing harshly. “No, not as bad. His temperature is up, too, I noticed.”

“Can’t keep much from you, I see. Well, I should say he’ll come down pretty hard, and need a fair amount of nursing back up to health. Lots of sun and rest. But I’ll get him through this first.” With a sudden darting glance, he added, “Go and lie down and I’ll wake you if I think you’re needed. You look all in, yourself.”

With a regretful backwards glance, Algy had to do as he was told, and slept through two hours before worry woke him again.

***

His James was worse, tossing and turning and shouting out names, warnings, as a man caught in a war might. “If you would fetch some more water I would be most obliged,” was all the doctor said. Solemnly the two of them sponged, wet, and watched. They sat on either side of him, one with his fingers drifting to the wrist every half hour or so, the other to the thumb, the slim fingers, wherever he thought they wouldn’t be noticed too much by the doctor. After a few hours of this, of Biggles sinking into a wide- eyed terror, the doctor looked directly into Algy’s eyes.

“This will be the telling point.”

***

“Rest and relaxation, not traipsing around doing things and that includes drinking yourself silly. Go to the country until you’re well enough to travel and then onto that cruise you were so lucky to be given.” James was desperate to go and visit Croydon for ‘a spot of catching up.’

Algy was adamant. “We’ll leave tomorrow afternoon for a cottage in the country. I don’t think you understand how unwell you were, James.”

James looked at him and reached up a shaky hand to touch the lines around Algy’s eyes and mouth, across his forehead. “I think I do when I look at you,” he whispered. “There’s plenty of space in the bed for two, and I promise I won’t do anything but cuddle.”

Algy covered the hand with his own. “Ginger’s away for the next week,” he mused, softly.

Curled up around James as he hadn’t been for many days, Algy let his palm rest on the steadily beating heart, the slowly rising chest. “When you get better, I’ll have to give you a thorough check up” he promised.

James shifted closer, still on his back, and tugged the hand up to suck one of the fingers. “Is that a fact, is it? I look forwards to my reward for surviving, then.”

***

 


End file.
